like you've always been lonely
by threecankeepasecret
Summary: The summer after the sacrifice, Elena takes off, driving until she feels like she can breathe again. Along the way, she finds she keeps running into a certain blonde.


She meets Holly at a bar thirty minutes outside of Louisville, a dingy little dive where there's no way they card minors, and even though she has a couple of IDs she swiped from Katherine's stuff in her wallet, something about that anonymity, of being somewhere where no one wants to know who you really are, draws her to park outside and head on in. She doesn't plan on being able to drive tonight, but she'll sleep in the car if she has to, and there's a little motel across the street where she figures she'll probably end up.

She notices the blonde girl over by the couches right away because, for a second, from behind, she looks like Caroline; but her hair is dark honey, nothing like Caroline's bright sunny curls, and that's why she decides to grab a seat next to her.

"What's a pretty girl like you doing in a dump like this?" she asks, voice wry, falling into a slightly exaggerated southern twang. The girl darts a suspicious look up at her, and then her face relaxes when she sees Elena is just as young and pretty, and mirrors Elena's smirk.

"Nothing good," she replies dryly.

"Looking to hit it off with one of these fine gentlemen?" Elena teases, nodding in the direction of the group of thirty-something truckers leering in their direction.

The girl laughs – her laugh is guarded, just like Elena's. It makes Elena like her. "Only if they're buying me a drink," she says.

"I'll buy you one," Elena replies.

The girl raises an eyebrow. "Are you hitting on me?" she asks.

Elena smirks. "What, the old movie come-ons didn't work? Come on."

The girl looks at her for a second, a strange, pensive expression on her face, and then smiles. "Cranberry vodka," she says at last.

So she doesn't just look young; Elena waves a server over, orders two drinks and a plate of fries, and opens a tab.

The girl tilts her head. "You're awfully sure of yourself, assuming I'll stick around for a second drink."

Elena grins. "You're right," she says. "I should at least get your name first."

The girl pauses for a moment. "Holly," she says at last. There's something deliberate in the way she says it. "Varjak. I take it you have a name, too?"

Elena tilts her chin, but doesn't let her smile slide off her face. "Jenny," she says. "Jenny Fell."

The server comes back with their order; Holly goes straight for the fries, like she's never seen anything so tempting before in her life. Elena sips at her drink, watching her. She makes a stunning picture, and there's a certainty to the way she moves, an intentness Elena can respect, but there are a few details that are off. Her nail polish looks like it's been chipped for weeks but still hasn't been removed. She has bags under her eyes like she doesn't remember the meaning of a good night's sleep. Her haircut is layered, but the ends of her hair are split, fraying a little, like she hasn't kept it up.

If she's alone in a bar like this, Elena thinks, she's not just a girl looking for fun. She's hiding from something, avoiding something, running from some sort of demons. That's why Elena's here, after all.

"Where are you staying tonight?" Elena asks her, halfway through their second round.

Something hesitant, and terribly, terribly sad, flickers in Holly's eyes just for a second, and then she's got a playful smirk fixed on her face again. "Are you offering an alternative?" she asks.

Elena tries not to worry, to think about what it means; the last thing she'd want would be for someone to ask her why she looks haunted more often than not. "There's a motel across the street I was planning to get a room at," she answers, forcing a flirty grin back onto her face. "I could be persuaded to share."

Holly laughs, throwing her head back so her blonde curls fall along the curve of her shoulder blade. "I don't think you need persuading," she replies.

Elena lets her grin turn into a smirk, looks at Ali through hooded eyes. "Then that makes two of us," she says.

She pays off her tab with cash, and pays for the motel room in cash, too; she knows Bonnie won't use a locator spell on her, but wouldn't put it past Damon to try and track her credit cards to figure out where she is, and she won't be found, not this summer, not by anyone. Holly giggles into her neck as she fumbles to get the door unlocked, and Elena laughs against her mouth as Holly pushes her into the room, her fingers already working at the zipper of Elena's jeans. Elena pushes her off, gently.

"One minute," she says, and goes over to the safe. She locks in her wallet and car keys, blocking the lock with her body so Holly can't see the code she chooses.

She turns back to see Holly pouting, eyes wide. "You think I'd rob you?" she asks, fake hurt written all over her face.

Elena smirks. "Yes," she says, and Holly laughs, letting Elena pull her in by the belt loop at the waistband of her jeans.

Holly's curls are as soft as they look between Elena's fingers; her chapstick is cherry-flavored, which Elena finds all too funny. It's been a long time since Elena last kissed a girl. Her skin is sun kissed, and with her mouth against Elena's it's clear that perfect pout of hers wasn't just expertly applied lip liner. Her hair spread across Elena's pillow is like dawn, and every curve of her body is soft and warm and inviting under Elena. She might seem haunted, but she's human, perfectly, beautifully human; Elena had forgotten how good that felt.

When she wakes up the next morning, the sun breaking through the flimsy blinds covering the window, Holly's gone without a trace. Elena rolls over and sits up, casting her gaze over the room. She a little disappointed, but she's not surprised; everything about Holly glimmered like something that only lasted a moment. It's after she's showered that she notices the small note, scribbled in loopy handwriting on a piece of motel stationary: _good call on the safe_.

. . .

The second time she meets Holly is in Tennessee, at a roadhouse she comes across around Knoxville. There's a familiar head of blonde hair sitting at the bar; it can't be her, it would be too much of a coincidence, but Elena walks closer anyway, and she sees Holly's face on the ID she hands the bartender, next to the name 'Vivian Darkbloom'.

She's not shocked that Holly wasn't her real name, but now she's intrigued.

"Vivian Darkbloom, Holly Varjak," Elena says, coming to sit next to not-Holly once the bartender's off serving someone else. "Someone's a fan of the classics."

Holly flinches the second she hears Elena speak, then turns around. "I'm sorry?" she asks, her voice just a little sharp.

The bartender comes back with the girl's – it's either a gin and tonic or a vodka soda, but Elena isn't sure. "I'll have a Jim Beam, neat, please?" she asks, with a bit of a twang. She hands over one of Katherine's IDs when prompted, and sees that Holly takes note of the different name on it.

"Christine, huh?" she says, and takes a sip of her drink. "I take it you don't have a twin stashed away somewhere."

Elena smiles easily. "I do, actually," she says, "but her name isn't Jenny, either." She accepts her drink with a smile and an accented "thank you," and takes a sip. "So, what's Vivian's story?" she asks.

Vivian lifts her chin and grins. "My parents split up when I was eight, and my mother took me with her to Paris," she says. The words fall easily from her lips; she seems more at ease, now that she's telling a lie. "She dated a whole string of designers, but never got her break as a model. I went off to a Swiss boarding school when I was thirteen; tiny place, middle of nowhere, no one's ever heard of it. I'm a travel journalist, now; I guess my childhood left me with a sense of never-ending wanderlust." She takes a long drink from her straw. "Christine?"

Elena shrugs. "She has a twin sister. She's finishing college somewhere, probably."

Vivian frowns. "That's not very exciting," she says.

"I've had enough exciting," Elena tells her. "Something tells me you have, too."

Vivian swirls her straw in her drink. "That's what lies are for, though, isn't it?" she asks. "When the truth doesn't deserve to be real?" She looks up, meeting Elena's eyes.

Elena smiles, raising her eyebrows. "I guess," she says.

Thirty minutes later, they're holding up the ladies' room, and Vivian's sitting on the edge of the sink, gasping, with her skirt hiked up and her fingers pulling at Elena's hair, and then Elena hears "come on, mate," in a British accent and she knows, she _knows_ that voice, and she all but throws herself back from the sink and clasps a hand over her mouth so she doesn't make a sound because he'll _hear_ , she doesn't know if Stefan's there too but Klaus is, she knows he is, and –

"What is it?" Vivian asks, already on her feet with her underwear back up.

"We need to get out of here," Elena says, voice low, and then sees herself in the mirror and swears. "He can't see me–"

Anyone would ask questions, _Elena_ would ask questions, but Vivian doesn't; she digs into that massive purse of hers and pulls out a dark baseball hat with the Titans' logo on it and a big pair of sunglasses. "Tie up your hair," she says, and Elena does; Vivian leaves the bathroom first and spots a back exit, then walks behind Elena as they leave, and she sits in the passenger seat in silence as Elena drives and drives, knuckles white, until she feels like she can let her grip on the wheel relax.

"I take it he's a truth that doesn't deserve to be real?" Vivian asks.

Elena summons up a half-smile. "Something like that," she says.

They're on the outskirts of some small town; Elena sees a playground, and pulls over. "Want a beer?" she asks, turning off the ignition.

Vivian blinks. "Sure," she says, and Elena opens the trunk, and grabs two Blue Moons from one of the six packs she has stashed in there. She hands one to Vivian.

They make their way to the swing set. The park is empty at this hour; they sit side-by-side, drinks in hand.

"Did he try to kill you?" Vivian asks.

Elena blinks. "Yeah," she says, and swallows. "How did you know?"

Vivian takes a long drink of her beer. "Someone tried to kill me," she says, after a minute. It's not an answer, but it answers Elena's question anyway. "They think they succeeded. I don't want them to know different."

"Me too," Elena says. "He thinks I'm dead. If he saw me – well, it wouldn't have been good."

Vivian looks sideways at her, and then quirks up the corner of her lip. "To not being dead," she says, raising her bottle.

Elena smiles back at her. "To not being dead," she echoes, and clinks her bottle to Vivian's. They both drink.

They don't hook up again that night, but they sleep in Elena's car, curled up next to each other. Vivian's hair is in Elena's mouth when she wakes up, and her head is resting on Elena's chest; she looks young, but she doesn't look peaceful. Elena can't imagine she ever does.

They get coffee and donuts at a drive through, listen to the country music station, and end up finishing what they'd started the night before in the backseat, parked at a dead end with no houses too near. It's daylight and they can see each other clear, but Elena doesn't ask about the scars on Vivian's thigh or at the back of her head, and Vivian doesn't ask about the ones on Elena's throat.

She drops Vivian off at a bus stop a few hours later. "Are you sure?" she asks, even though Vivian's already said yes twice.

Vivian just smirks at her, but her eyes aren't in it. "Never look back, Elena," she says, and she sounds like she wants to sound mysterious but really she just sounds sad. "Something might be gaining on you."

. . .

It's mid-July when Elena sees a familiar blonde head of hair at the bar Damon brought her to in Georgia, what feels like a lifetime ago. She wasn't planning on coming, but she found herself driving down a familiar road and, well, Bree wasn't there anymore, obviously, no one who knew her had any reason to be there, and she'd really wanted a burger, so she'd stopped and come in and now, there Vivian is. There's no reason for their paths to keep crossing like this, but then maybe there is; maybe there are only so many places teenage girls who don't want to be found can end up. She knows someone tried to kill the girl, but she doesn't know if it was something supernatural or someone human. She hopes it's the latter, even though it's awful; she doesn't want the world she's running from to have found her.

Part of her thinks to be suspicious, of course; Vivian had been at the same bar as Klaus, the second time. She could be keeping tabs on Elena. But Elena doesn't really believe that, and she's not sure why but she trusts her gut, so she strides over to the table and says "Holly or Vivian?"

The girl looks up; genuine surprise registers in her eyes for just a moment, and then she's flashing a grin almost good enough to be believed. "Marnie," she says.

Elena laughs. "Good one," she says, and takes a seat across from her. "Have you eaten today?"

Marnie shakes her head; Elena orders two burgers and two beers. "Anything in particular bring you to Georgia?"

Marnie's quiet for a moment; she looks down, and then sighs, her shoulders dropping a bit. "My grandma lived near here," she says at last. "We used to visit her this time of year. I didn't get to go to her funeral, so, I don't know, I like to come back."

"I'm so sorry," Elena says.

Marnie offers her a half-smile. "Yeah, so am I." She sits up straight, blinking quickly, and smiles beatifically. "And who are you today?"

"Kathy," Elena says.

"With a C or a K?" Marnie asks, tone just slightly flirty.

"With a K," she says.

Marnie grins. "And what brings you to this part of Georgia, Kathy with a K?"

"A friend brought me to this bar once," Elena says. "I remembered how good the fries were."

They chat over lunch, and Marnie's charming and flirtatious but there's something subdued about her; it's barely noticeable and Elena thinks she's one of the only people who would notice. It's late afternoon by the time they're done, and Marnie leaves with Elena without either of them having to say anything.

"Well, what way are we headed?" Elena asks. "Alabama or South Carolina?"

Marnie flinches. "Not South Carolina," she says.

Elena looks over at her for a moment, then turns the keys in the ignition. "Alabama it is," she says.

It's a beautiful drive; there's something haunted about the landscape surrounding them that makes Elena feel right at home. They drive until sundown, and find a roadside motel, still in Georgia but not far from the state border. Elena gets them a room.

They stay for a week, only leaving to stock up on snacks and beer at the grocery store. They keep the blinds shut and the TV on, stupid soap operas buzzing in their ears, the treacherous summer heat seeping into their bones, into their lungs, leaving them in bed for hours and hours with no good reason to get up. They're tangled up together in the tangled sheets of a bed they never bother to make, always sticky with each others' sweat, always lazily entwined.

One night they're sitting on the floor together, sharing a bottle of whiskey, both only wearing ragged old Timberwolves t-shirts Elena had packed to sleep in. There's a storm outside, and the TV's lost service, the screen only showing static, but they haven't bothered to turn it off; the artificial light bounces off Marnie's skin, casting different shadows across her face every second.

"Have you ever killed anyone?" Elena asks.

She doesn't know why she asks, really; it's not exactly the kind of question you ask, well, anyone. Marnie looks startled for a moment, then blinks, and frowns.

"I've tried to," she admits, after a moment. "It didn't kill him, though." She tilts her head at Elena, a quizzical expression on her face. "You?"

"Yes," Elena says, and swallows, a little surprised at herself. "Yeah, actually." She pauses and bites her lip. "How did you try?" she asks.

"I pushed him off a bell tower," she says, and Elena laughs out of astonishment more than anything else. Marnie grins wryly. "Yeah," she says. "He had it coming, though. He was trying to push my friend off."

Elena grins. "Fair enough."

"How about you?" Marnie asks.

Elena takes a breath. "Drove a knife into his heart," she says.

"Huh," Marnie replies, and takes a swig from the bottle. "Did he deserve it?"

Elena pauses. "Yes," she says, carefully, "but that wasn't why I did it."

"Why, then?" Marnie asks. She doesn't sound judgmental, or even concerned, just curious.

"Either I killed him or he got what he wanted," says Elena, "and I couldn't let him get what he wanted."

Marnie tilts her head. "Which was what?"

"To hurt the people I love," she replies, and takes a drink.

"Do they know where you are?" Marnie asks.

"No," Elena tells her. "Do yours?"

Marnie looks down, purses her lips. "They think I'm dead," she says.

That Elena didn't expect; she blinks, and puts down the bottle. "Why?" she asks.

Marnie takes a deep breath. "If I hadn't left, I would be," she says, after a moment, "and if they knew I wasn't, they'd be in danger." She raises her eyebrows and laughs a little to herself. "More danger."

They're silent for a long while, then; the only sound in the room is the crackling white noise of the television and the occasional crashes of thunder from outside.

"My real name's Elena," Elena says, finally.

Marnie glances up at her through her lashes; she looks so pretty it almost hurts. "Ali," she returns. "Or Alison." She looks at Elena like she's evaluating her. "Do you have an identical twin?"

Elena laughs without humor. "Evil twin, doppelganger. Yeah, she's real. Her name's Katherine."

"I take it you're not exactly close?" Ali asks; there's a tiny bit of snark in her voice, but it doesn't sound mean-spirited.

"You could say that," says Elena.

"Yeah." Ali sits back and takes the bottle from Elena; for a moment she seems to be looking at something that isn't there. "Siblings suck sometimes." She takes a drink, and sighs.

The storm rages over the motel like it's screaming for an answer to a question that doesn't exist; Elena's warm all over, wrapped up in Ali, but she's still cold down to her bones, like whatever lies outside can still slip under her skin even here, where she's barricaded herself against the world. She doesn't let it force her to leave, not yet, but she knows she has to; there's a cold that's going to climb into her body wherever she goes, if she stays too long.

"Have you ever been to Alabama?" she asks Alison one day, when they're running out of food and it's become unavoidably clear that they can't hole up in this little haven of theirs forever.

Ali looks up from her coffee cup and meets Elena's eyes, one eyebrow raised. "No," she says, sounding curious and a little amused.

"I went to Birmingham with my parents when I was eight," Elena says. "I don't remember much."

She leaves the real question unasked: _will you come with me?_

Alison swallows. "I don't like to stay in one place for too long," she says.

"Neither do I," says Elena. "But things don't catch up to you, if you move fast enough."

Alison examines her for a long moment, and then lets a small, sly smile spread across her face. "Well, I do love a road trip," she says, and that's that.

They spend three weeks together; Ali insists on controlling the radio while Elena drives. They stop at drive-thrus for milkshakes and fries, spend every night in a different motel, and stop at roadside bars up and down the highway. They make their way down and over to Mississippi, and they charm every restaurant owner and B&B manager they choose to because they both can, and they're far enough from home (or at least, Elena is, and she thinks Alison is too, from the way she's holding herself) that the fear of being remembered isn't getting in the way of the knowledge they can get what they want if they're the sweethearts they know how to be.

Elena starts playing pool again, at any bar that has tables, and it's so bittersweet sometimes it makes her feel like she can't breathe. Ali usually watches from the bar, or sweet talks whatever guys Elena's playing into betting drinks on the outcome of the game, but one night, she decides she wants to learn.

"It's all about angles," Elena says, her hand at the curve of Ali's back as Ali leans over the table, cue in hand. "And foresight. You – no, bend lower, you want to be looking at eye level," she says, and Alison does. "Okay, so the white ball, right?" she says. "You're not just looking to see if the ball it hits will sink. You want to see where that ball will go – so if you hit the purple ball on the left, right on the edge –" she slides her arm along Ali's and adjusts her aim, almost imperceptibly – "the purple ball will hit the green one just left of center, and the green one will spin right into the middle pocket."

Ali nods, braces herself to strike.

"No, your grip's not right, not yet," Elena says. "You need better control – you want the knuckle of your index and of your thumb to make a perfect V – see how easily the cue slides, now?"

"Don't people usually wrap their finger around the cue?" Ali asks.

Elena sighs. "Some people do, and sometimes it works, but I like this way best, most of the time," she says. "You're not risking your strike getting messed up by friction. You have a smooth grip and a direct view, and you know exactly how hard you're going to hit the ball. It makes all the difference."

"Makes sense," Ali says.

Elena steps back, and a moment later, Ali strikes perfectly. The green ball sinks. Ali straightens slowly, flips her hair over her shoulder, and smirks back at Elena.

"I'm a quick study," she says.

. . .

It has to end, of course; it was always going to end, and they both knew it, and Elena thinks maybe there's a world where it could have lasted but it was never going to in this one. There's Jeremy at home and he needs her; but of course it's not that selfless, Jeremy's at home and she needs him. They don't talk about it, but they start heading back North as the end of August draws nearer, and they both know what it means.

She drops Ali off in Georgia at her request. Ali doesn't tell her what's in Georgia, and Elena doesn't ask; they grab lunch together at a little diner, and then Elena drives Ali to a small town only thirty miles from the bar they'd met up at, just a few weeks ago. They sit in the car for a few minutes even though they've reached their destination; they don't talk, they don't even look at each other.

"I live in Virginia," Elena says, and Alison looks over at her. "It's a town called Mystic Falls, it's not too far from Richmond." She digs through her purse and grabs an old receipt and a pen, and scribbles her number down on the back, then hands it to Ali. "If you ever – if you need somewhere to go," she says.

Ali looks at her hand for a moment, then takes the receipt. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I will."

She gets out of the car and walks down the road. Elena watches her go until she turns a corner and disappears out of sight; her blonde curls bounce as she walks, but she doesn't look back, not once.

Elena sits in the car for a few more minutes, then turns the key in the ignition again, and drives back out onto the freeway.


End file.
